


A Little Bird Told Me

by The_Dwelf



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types, The Hobbit - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Good Parent Glóin, Good Parent Thranduil, M/M, The line between hostage and guest is apparently very thin
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-14 21:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 20,916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29177625
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Dwelf/pseuds/The_Dwelf
Summary: Note to Thranduil: in a world where people are born with the name of their soulmate written on their forearm, always remember to inquire on the names of your prisoners.To accidentally hold hostage your own son’s soulmate is, apparently, easier than you would expect.Note to Legolas: lying to your soulmate about your name will not prevent you from falling hard for him.Note to Gimli: The road to adulthood is a string of ups and downs that lead you to hit your face repeatedly while everyone thinks they know better than you and you think you know better than anyone else.
Relationships: Gimli (Son of Glóin)/Legolas Greenleaf
Comments: 46
Kudos: 110





	1. Prelude

**Author's Note:**

> Our favourite lovebirds are in for a Soulmate AU! I’ve been working on this for months, deleting and starting again, but it can finally start to see the light. As some of you might already know, I’m not a native speaker, so guys, if you notice any mistakes, misspelling, or something in the use of the language sounds weird, please let me know!

“In a hole in the ground there lived a Hobbit,” I could begin. “Oh, I know this story,” some readers would answer, and they would be right indeed to complain, and wrong all the same. 

For, you see, you have already heard the story of a brave Hobbit, Bilbo Baggins was his name. You have been told of how, without a handkerchief, he joined a company of thirteen Dwarves and (most of the time) a Wizard on their quest to reclaim Erebor. Indeed, you have heard of Erebor, the Lonely Mountain, the once splendid home of the Dwarves that was, at the time, unrightfully occupied by the wicked Smaug, as greedy for treasures as a dragon is expected to be. 

You are familiar with the jolly Elves singing in the Valley and with the hospitality of the Last Homely house. You know that other Elves dwell in Mirkwood Forest and like to party, merrily clad in greed and brown, but do not like to be interrupted by Dwarves who will not confess their reasons for trespassing. 

You remember the skin-changer and his wonderful animals, you remember wolves and wargs and spiders, you remember majestic Eagles, crows and ravens, you remember trolls and goblins. 

And if you do, I am afraid you may be already starting to get bored. Stay with me just a moment more! Hear what I am about to say and then you will decide for yourself whether to go and leave this storyteller to storytellers’ business, or to listen to a part of the story you may have never heard before. 

There are, indeed, at least two versions of this story out there- none of which, unfortunately, seems to match the one I have heard, and that I know to be true.

Will you stay, then, and listen? Very well. To begin, I must bring you back many a year ere the day a company of Dwarves made its appearance at Bag’s End- sixtytwo years before, to be precise. 

At that time Thorin II, son of Thráin, son of Thrór, was the capable leader of a Dwarven settlement in the Blue Mountains. After many long years of tragedy and suffering (on which I shall not linger, for tragedy makes a good story, yes, but another story it would be), the People of During finally had started to live more or less peacefully. Their craft and trading went fairly well and the pain, everlasting as it was, had started to fade. 

It was the time for recovery, for smiles, for love- and for children. 

Many Dwarves were born around that time. Thorin’s sister herself, Dís, whom he loved dearly, had two sons. Fíli and Kíli were their names, young and lively children, and on that early autumn morning their excitement was greater than ever.

Their cousin was born that night, the firstborn son of Glóin and Lim. It was, of course, a joyful day, yet Thorin was rather troubled.

“Why can’t we go?”

Kíli was complaining, his arms stubbornly crossed while he was sitting at the breakfast table. 

“Uncle is meeting him before we do! That’s no fair! We want to see the little one!”

He insisted. His older brother was silent, but clearly no less disappointed. 

“Lads, please.”

Smiled Thorin in an attempt to conceal his concern from them. 

“Poor Lím must be exhausted, she could not handle a storm of visitors now, could she? I will tell you everything upon my return, and you will meet your cousin soon, I promise.”

“Now that I think about it,” Dis stepped in, collecting the empty mugs, “we ought to prepare some presents!” 

Fíli and Kíli followed her to the kitchen’s sink, each bringing their plate and cutlery, suddenly interested in her words despite their resolve to keep sulking.

“Presents?”

“Of course,” she insisted, speaking as if she was discussing some important matter with important adults. “We must congratulate properly. I think I will need your help, my sons, we don’t have much time, you know?”

“We don’t?”

Asked Kíli, taking the bait at once.

“Indeed! We should split… let me finish the dishes, you two go to your room and draw a nice picture. Something colourful, eh? For your cousin’s sake, little ones love bright colours. Take your time, do your best, and I am sure Glóin and Lim will hang it right next to the crib. When you’re done get back here, I shall bake something and will use your help. Perhaps there will be something sweet for you, if you deserve it.”

Kíli ran off almost before she could finish her sentence, already devoted to his new duty. Fíli, on his part, still looked rather crossed. 

“Oi, Fíli,” Dís whispered, getting closer to her son, “Could you keep an eye on your brother? I bet he’ll try to draw goblins, or war scenes- you know he’s going through that phase, but we don’t want to upset a little child with that. Can I trust you? Yes?”

And of course, the second fish was on the hook, and Fili nodded solemnly before storming off as well. 

“I fear the day they realize how good you are at fooling them.”

“I will put the blame on you, somehow.”

“Oi!”

Dis chuckled softly, shaking her head. 

“Thorin… what is this all about? Is the child well?”

He took a deep breath, nodding. 

“I think so. Look for yourself…”

He produced a piece of parchment from his pocket and handed it to his sister. 

“This is the note that Óin brought me before sunrise.”

_To my King and cousin Thorin,_

_As you may have heard, Lím gave birth to our son a few hours ago._

_We are overjoyed and the child is hale, but there is something that troubles us deeply._

_We long for your counsel. I would be grateful if you could come at your earliest convenience._

_Forgive my boldness if you can._

_Your kin and subject,_

_Glóin, son of Gróin._

“How queer,” was all Dis could say, rather confused. 

“You understand my concern. I shall waste no more time and be off.”

He was in such a rush that he forgot he was leaving empty-handed, and Dìs caught up with him to shove a basket of goods in his arms. He felt very grateful, for it would have been a shame to show at their door without a little something for the new parents- he would give them a proper present worthy of a new-born child of the line of Durin after the presentation ceremony, but for the moment not to show up empty-handed was enough.

He felt very grateful, yes, until he reached the heavy door - that now displayed a beautiful garland made of twigs and ribbons- and realized that the basket was so big it required both of his arms. Mumbling to himself and not wanting to place the basket on the floor, where the fresh buns would have collected dust, he had no choice but to gently kick against the door.

“Comin’!”

Came Glóin’s voice from inside. The Dwarf-king barely had the time to look at the wood-carven beads intertwined with the ribbons, stating the gender and lineage of the child. Glóin was at the door, smiling with surprise, for he had not recognized Thorin by the knock -Thorin would not usually kick the door, thank you very much- and he had been looking forward to seeing him. 

“Thorin! Come in, come in!”

He invited him, and Thorin thought to himself that perhaps he had worried too much. The new father seemed as happy as any should be, and when- after many thanks for the honey, the bread, the cheese and the meat he had brought- he led him to the bedroom, Lím seemed just as overjoyed, if considerably more tired. 

She was sitting with her back against a large pillow, and in her arms was the littlest bundle Thorin had ever seen, gurgling and babbling and whining against his mother’s chest, all nestled up in her arms and wrapped in wool fabric, only his face and clumps of reddish hair showing. 

“Grandma just left and you have another visit already! Are you not a lucky little one? Are you not?”

In response, the baby wailed lazily until his mother shifted their position a little. 

“I am sorry, you both must be tired. Should I have waited longer?”

“No, not at all,” she reassured him, “it is a comfort to have you here. Come closer.”

Thorin sat on the edge of the bed, where Lím was patting in an invitation. She then handed him the baby, carefully placing him in his arms, the arms that had held Fíli and Kíli so many times in the same way.

“This is little Gimli. Say hi to Thorin, love, yes? ‘Hi, Thorin’. He is important, you know. Not just any Dwarf, this one.”

Little Gimli did not seem very interested in how important Thorin was. What mattered to him was that he did not seem to be his mother, and to him that was, judging by his huffing, very confusing and a little upsetting. 

Thorin could not help but to smile broadly, raising the child to greet him properly, forehead against forehead as it was the custom of their people - gently, a soft touch, for he knew how delicate small children were, especially near the head.

Gimli, at that, was faced with a big nose right in front of his mouth and, having little knowledge of traditions and custom, yet considering himself already quite the expert when it came to food, he decided to give it a try. The tentative suckle at the tip of Thorin's nose, however, only succeeded in making the adults burst into laughter. If that was not his mother’s nipple and would give no milk, he had no interest in it, and perhaps he even sensed that they were laughing at him- and oh, that was too much. Little Gimli finally decided that mommy’s arms were a better place and started crying out loud. It worked, for a moment later he was back against Lím’s chest.

“He’s a fierce one, eh?”

“Indeed,” Glóin answered, smiling proudly and kissing his wife on the temple. “He was born a few weeks earlier than what the midwife expected, but he’s strong and healthy. He just needs to gain some pounds.”

“Well, with that attitude, that shall be no problem, I am sure.”

“It’s not my son’s fault. Lim’s beard is so long that it gets in the way when she’s feeding him- he must think breasts are supposed to have a beard of their own.” 

“Glóin!”

Lím shot him a glance, shaking her head. 

“You know it’s bad luck to trim one’s beard when expecting.”

“I do, I do, Kurdulel. Forgive my jesting.”

“Gloin, Lim,” Thorin interrupted, not exactly willing to hear more about Lim’s breasts, “I am glad that your son is strong and hale, but… the note you sent concerned me. What is it that troubles you?”

The new parents shared a brief look, then Lím started loosening the fabric wrapped around her child. 

“It’s about his soulmate.” 

Thorin raised an eyebrow at Glóin’s statement. As any other inhabitant of Middle-Earth, Gimli was born with the name of his soulmate written on his forearm. 

“If you cannot read it yet, it is nothing to be worried about. It tends to be barely noticeable at first, sometimes it is illegible because it is almost the same shade of the skin tone, but it will differentiate in the next few months.”

“No, no,” Lím interrupted him, “it’s actually fairly easy to read, but… see for yourself.”

She exposed Gimli’s arm - and the baby was very cross at being forced to stick his arm out when, a moment before, it was cosily enwrapped in warm wool. Thorin leaned in, squinting, and indeed the skin-name was already quite visible.

“Le..go..las.” 

He read aloud, then he fell silent. The only sound, for a while, was Gimli’s protest at being the object of too much attention when all he wanted was to cuddle against his Amad and either be fed or lulled to sleep. 

“Alas,” cried Glóin after several moments, “then we were correct. It’s an Elvish name, is it not?”

“Well…” Thorin started tentatively. “It is no Dwarven name, I am afraid. It looks like Elvish, but… it might be the name of a child of men. Some borrow the names for their children from that folk.”

“That sounds a little far-fetched, though,” answered Lím, carefully covering her son again and rocking him gently. 

“Is it not more far-fetched to believe him destined to an Elf? Queer folk, and immortal! How could a mortal and an immortal be soulmates? It would be a cruel joke, from the Valar.”

“It would not be the first time,” sighed Glóin. “The Half Elven descend from the union of men and Elves, don’t they? Cruel joke, indeed, yet it happened.”

Thorin took a deep sigh, looking at the now peaceful baby as he yawned helplessly in his nest of fabric. 

“I am at loss for words, my friends. It is unprecedented for a Dwarf to be born with a skin-name of a different folk- an Elf, of all!” 

Suddenly, as if she sensed danger, Lím held her baby closer to her chest. 

“He’s our child. A son of Durin. No matter what, he’s just as worthy as any other Dwarf.”

“But of course,” and, “He most certainly is,” Glóin and Thorin both reassured her immediately. 

“Lím, Glóin, you need not to worry, my friends. Your Gimli is a healthy little fellow. He will grow up strong and smart and will be much loved. Indeed, I know a couple of lads who cannot wait to meet him and make a rascal of their likes out of him. Two wonderful parents and two hotheads for cousins- he’s in good hands.”

Lím relaxed, chuckling softly, and reached out to hold Thorin’s hand in her own. 

“So- if he was to… if his soulmate really was an Elf…”

“We don’t know that. Perhaps the explanation is easier than we think.”

“But if it was, what would you do?”

Thorin blinked a couple of times, slightly confused. Then, finally, he understood. 

“Were you afraid I would cast him away because his skin-name is in Elvish?”

He asked, almost hurt. 

“I don’t know what I’m afraid of. I don’t want him to suffer, and this looks like the prelude to a lot of misery.”

Thorin slid his hand behind her neck and kindly kissed her forehead.

“Enjoy these wonderful days with your child. I devoted myself to the welfare of my people, and he makes no exception. If there is any pain I can spare him, I will. We are family,” he said, and he meant it. Family is a strong bond for Dwarves, and only a sickness of the mind and of the heart can make them forget how dearly they love each other. 

Of course, at that time, Thorin did not know that he was in for the greatest malady a Dwarf can come across. 

\---

For the sake of equality, I should tell you the story of yet another rather unusual birth. After all, when a mortal is born with an Elven skin-name, an Elf somewhere must bear the name of that mortal on the arm. 

And so, of course, did Legolas. However, very few remains that still remember that day, and not one, perhaps, is on this side of the sea. I shall then not stray from the year of Gimli’s birth, and tell you about the days of the prince of Mirkwood at that time. You will find with surprise that much can be guessed of the past if one observes with attention its consequences in time. 

The Prince of _Mirkwood_ , indeed; so the Forest had been renamed more than two thousand years before. He had once been the Prince of Greenwood the Great, when he was a child, but of that time all that was left was a fond memory. The Shadow of Dol Guldur had taken almost everything from him. The once blissful forest was overcome by foul creatures, his mother had found her death by the rusty knife of a lowly Goblin. His father had grown sadder, even colder, since that day, or so it seemed to Legolas. 

Yet, the Elves are a merry folk, and more so are the Silvan elves, who take joy in dancing and feasting among the trees, who find comfort in good company and memories around the fire. Give Silvan Elves a forest that was burned down, and they shall weep. But if a single seedling can be found in the ashes, if the tiniest glimpse of life fights against despair and loss, they will marvel at it, and rejoice, and assist that spark of life with the patience of eternal beings until the wounded forest is hale, should it take two or two hundred centuries. 

When his Soulmate was fighting to take his first breath, Legolas had long given up the idea of ever meeting him. 

To be born with the skin-name of a Mortal is a curse to any Elf. Two are the paths it can lead to: either the Mortal is born and dead before they even get to ever meet, or they meet, and the Elf is doomed to the pain of loss. 

“Gimli” was not a name of any Elvish language. It was not Sindarin, not Quenya, not any known variety. Legolas did not remember, but he had been told that his parents had extensively researched after his birth and found that it was, indeed, an existing word in an old dialect of some long-lost Men lineage, and it meant “fire”. 

Men.

How long did they live? Fifty years, seventy, a century, depending on the dynasty they came from. Very few could perhaps live up to two hundred years, if in their veins still flew a trace of Elven blood from some long-forgotten ancestor. 

At the eve of every new century Legolas was aware that, in a time to him so short he barely noticed its passing, his soulmate could have been born, lived to their fullest, and died peacefully without ever even knowing who that “Legolas” was. 

Men could even _marry,_ sometimes, _marry someone else._ It was not uncommon. Men and women whose soulmate had died - or could not be with them for any other reason - would settle for a marriage of convenience, have children, and live with a friend as if they were each other’s One. It was something that an Elf could barely try to understand. Elves could not lie with any other than their One if they tried, it was far from their nature, unconceivable to their bodies. 

There had been a time when Legolas would wonder about his soulmate. He would ask the wind to bring him news of a child of Men called Gimli, but the wind never answered. He would ask the scholars whether the name applied to male or female, but none of them knew, for they had found the meaning, yet there was no record of the word being used as a name. He would ask himself whether Gimli was yet to be born or long dead, or alive in that very moment, comfortably nestled in the arms of some second choice or wandering the Earth in search of him. 

But that was centuries before. A moment came when Legolas realized that “Gimli” could have been born and died- what, thirty times? Forty, fifty even? He could not find any more sense in wondering, in waiting for someone who was in all likelihood already lost forever, or that would come to this world in who knows how many thousand years, just to walk its paths for a few decades. 

“I will spare myself the pain”, he had told himself, and since then an armband would cover his forearm as if he was a widow. He had resigned to never find his One and dedicated himself to the welfare of his people. He would be a fair Prince, one they could confide in, one his father would be proud of and could count on. 

“Your choice is wise”, the Elvenking had said upon seeing the armband peeking from under the sleeves of Legolas’ tunic. For the Elvenking still mourns his wife to this day, or so it is said. “You will spare yourself the pain”, he had added, leaving Legolas to wonder whether his father was unconsciously repeating words he had never heard his son pronounce, or the other way around. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s it for the first chapter! It was very introductory, I know, I promise some more interaction soon.  
> If you liked it or if you feel you have something to say, let me know in a comment. And again feel free to let me know if you notice something wrong with the language, I won’t get offended at all, I would be very grateful, actually.


	2. Change

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas knows that something will change, soon. He knows not what is changing and he’s not sure whether or not it will be good.  
> Gimli is determined to take the change he wants in his life into his own hands.

_Such warm colours herald the arrival of the cold season in the woods. The highest trees paint the skyline brightly, with yellow and orange and red, while the ground is carpeted in slightly darker shades of the same colours, spots of brown lying underneath the freshly fallen leaves._

_Legolas’ steps were light and swift, swift, as if he were fleeing from something he could not name. Not a snapped twig, not a creaking branch under his feet._

_“ **Legolas** ,” came again the calling. It was no voice: there was no tone, no accent, it was not male nor female, it made no echo, no sound to begin with. It was a calling he could feel, rather than hear. It made his heartbeat fasten, his pupils dilate, his mouth go dry. It made him run, run fast, run faster, run desperately and senselessly. Legolas ran for his life, yet he did not know- was he escaping the calling, or looking for it? Was he trying to get away, or to throw himself into its arms?_

_Still the wood would not respond to his blind rush, not a sound from the dry leaves he crumbled, not from the branches he bumped into, not even from his clothes as they were shredded by the thorny bushes._

_He opened his mouth and tried to scream for help, but he found even his own voice was gone. Nothing could break that silence, and it was driving him insane. He was almost naked, his skin covered with cuts and scratches, but he felt no cold nor pain. Nothing could be felt except that dragging force._

_He fell on his knees, out of desperation more than exhaustion, for he could not even feel any sign of fatigue. He tried to scream again, yet not for help this time._

_“I am here”, he tried to say, “come get me, or let yourself be found!” he wanted to shout. Once more there was no sound, yet, somehow, he was heard. Relief washed over him of a sudden, he felt warm and comfortable as a scared child finally safe in his mother’s arms._

_He was feeling again._

_The breeze against his skin, the sting from the reddish net of cuts that covered his body, the wind blowing next to his ears. The tweeting and hooting, the chirping and squeaking, oh how had he missed those sounds._

_Yet there was no one he could see, no steps approaching, no voice speaking to him- but he knew he was not alone, he knew that whoever or whatever was calling him had found him, and he knew not if he was overjoyed or terrified by that knowledge._

He awoke with a start, a hand to his throat, the other clutching at the mattress. It took him a few moments to acknowledge the reality, to remember the many nights those same visions had hunted in the last weeks, to remember that the air he was gaping for was that of his own room, his own home, that the semidarkness that surrounded him was that of any regular night, that the lack of pain from his skin was merely due to the lack of cuts.

It was the beginning of March.

Flashes of his dream made him shiver as his heartbeat slowed down, as he curled up under the sheets that were suddenly too light. He reached for the thick blanket he had started keeping folded at the end of the bed. The feeling of _not feeling_ from those… nightmares? It was unbearable. He needed to _feel_. The heaviness of the covers pushing his body against the bed, his fingernails digging in the flesh of his arms, air in his lungs, air out, in, out, deeply, steadily.

It was the beginning of March.

He was alone in the wide chambers that belonged to him, the Prince of Mirkwood, the son of the Elvenking, the heir of the realm once known as Greenwood the Great. He felt so little against the night.

It was the beginning of March.

\--- 

Dwarves can be a lot of work for their parents when they are young. Determined and proud folk, the Dwarves, some would say stubborn. The troubled age that sits between childhood and adulthood is the time for crossed arms and planted feet, for stiff necks and big mouths. 

It is, of course, a natural stage of their lives, but it can be taxing for the elders to deal with so much obstinacy. 

Gimli, at the age of sixty-two, was no exception. Neither were his cousins Fíli and Kíli, twenty and fifteen years his seniors. 

It is no wonder that, when Thorin announced his intention to recruit a company of trustworthy kinsmen and lead them in a quest to reclaim Erebor, the three young Dwarves decided that they would join at all costs. 

There was a lot of harrumphing and arguing in their homes for weeks, for they were all deemed too young for such a perilous quest. Eventually, however, Fíli and Kíli managed to convince their uncle, and to a lesser extent their mother, that it was their right _and_ their duty to join. Gimli, on the other hand, had a harder time. He was the youngest of the three, and unlike his cousins he was not in line for the throne they would reclaim, so the points he tried to make were rather weak. Almost a month he spent insisting that he could, indeed, face the journey. He tried to convince his parents, he stubbornly insisted that they could not dispense an extra couple of arms when they were already so few. Lím and Glóin were so irremovable that he also tried to speak directly to Thorin, without any luck. 

Well, _apparently_. 

Gimli was a clever Dwarf, he knew how to play his cards, some would say. And Thorin, as most of the elder Dwarves did, had a tendency to underestimate him due to his young age. A common mistake, indeed. 

The evening before the day designated for the departure, the three young Dwarves were sitting at their usual table at the Drunken Boar, a mug of Ale in their hands and a mischievous smile on Gimli’s face.

“You look far too satisfied, for one who did not get what he wanted.”

Fíli pointed out, crossing his arms and smiling curiously. 

“Brother, I bet our cousin is not ready to give up yet.”

“Aye, Kíli,” Gimli confirmed, putting down his mug. 

“We promised we would go, and I shall not stay behind. I’m leaving with my father and my uncle tomorrow morning, and we shall all meet up at the burglar’s home. May my beard fall off if I’m not there!”

“You’ll end up beardless then, cousin. Your parents did not give you permission, and neither did our uncle,” Fíli pointed out, shaking his head. He would have been happy if Gimli were to join them, indeed, but he was realistic. 

“Oh? Thorin never told me I cannot come. Have you forgotten?”

“He said,” Kíli interrupted, “that he would trust you and that he believed you would make a useful addition to the company, but…”

“...but,” Gimli ended the sentence, “that I could not join if my parents did not allow me to.”

“Lads, you both know that he said so just to save himself the hassle of arguing. He did not deem even the two of us old enough to go, he barely gave _us_ permission.”

“Sure, Fíli, I know,” Gimli agreed, “he said he would be happy to let me join if my parents allowed because he knows they never will. I couldn’t care less why he said so: he did, and he cannot take it back if my parents let me join.” 

“And how are your parents not a major flaw in your plan?”

Gimli only shrugged at Kíli’s question, as if it did not really matter that much. 

“My pack is ready. I am joining my father and uncle Óin tomorrow. They will have no choice unless they drag me inside and lock the door. And if they do, assuming they catch me, I shall scream.”

“Throwing a tantrum! Way to show them you are mature enough for the quest,” laughed Kíli, almost choking on his ale.

“Well, quite desperate a plan, but I figure it could work.” 

Considered Fíli, raising his mug.

“To Gimli,” he said, and, 

“To the Journey,” added Kíli. 

“To Erebor,” Gimli smiled, and the mugs clicked against each other. 

\---

“Go. Inside.”

“No.”

Gimli was standing right in front of their house, feet planted on the ground. 

“Lad,” Óin insisted softly, “you should listen to your parents. We’ll be late if we don’t get going.”

“Indeed,” the young Dwarf agreed, “let us move. We don’t want to keep Thorin waiting.”

"Gimli. I have had enough. Say your goodbyes to your father and your uncle and come home." 

"Amad, I shall say my goodbyes to you and be off with them." 

"You shall stay."

"Make me." 

Lím and her husband shared a look, each hoping that the other would come up with a solution. 

"Gimli, please," she begged him in the end, sighing. "You are too young; I don't know how many times I told you already."

"But this is not the point, is it?"

He had been keeping that card as a last, desperate move. In part because he knew it was better to play it with the pressure of time running out. In part because he knew very well that it was not entirely fair, and he would have avoided it, if possible. 

“Of course it is! And your childish fuss only proves that.”

“The point is,” the young one insisted, trying to remain calm as he spoke, “that you are ashamed of me.” 

Silence fell so hard that Gimli could feel it hitting on his thick head. He had said it, and now he had to go along with that, but his heart was already sinking with guilt. His accusations were unfair, and the Dwarf was kind and had a good soul. It was not like him to play such tricks to his very family- but what other choice did he have?

“How can you say that? When did we ever give you the impression that we are ashamed of you?”

Lím’s stern pose had suddenly softened. 

“I have an Elven skin-name. You all fear that others outside of the family find out. You are afraid that if I meet that _Legolas_ , everyone will know. Is that not so?”

Of course, Gimli knew that the answer was _no_ , or, at least, _not exactly._ His parents were overprotective, yes, and they did worry about the nature of his skin-name causing him troubles. But it was not fair to accuse them of being ashamed. 

However, somehow it worked. Glóin and Lím shared a look, and both of them shrugged. 

“Of course we are not ashamed, Gimli. Fine. Just come with us.”

The young Dwarf raised an eyebrow in surprise and turned to his mother, who only sighed deeply and nodded. 

“What else can I say?” She muttered compliantly, a hand raised to her chin, fiddling with her well-groomed beard. “If this is how you feel, then go. You’ll be in good hands, after all.” 

“Aye, but mind you,” Glóin warned him, “if you join, there is no second thought, no turning back. You are so eager to be seen as an adult, you’ll have to act like one. 

"Of course!"

Gimli assured, still half incredulous that he had made it. 

"You won't regret it."

He promised, smiling broadly. At the time he had, of course, no idea of how much his father and uncle were going to regret that choice, and how little he would be able to do anything to prevent it.

When he said goodbye to his mother, he dearly hoped that the long, warm hug he gave her was enough to make up for his low blow. 

\---

_“Oh! Where the wind blows,_

_In autumn a leaf goes._

_Let our voices fly_

_likewise swift and light!_

_Near where the water flows,_

_Grow the violet and the rose._

_Let our song be_

_As nurturing as lymph._

_In Mirkwood the trees are tired,_

_In Mirkwood the trees are scared._

_May we soothe their pain,_

_Cast the Shadow away!_

_The Forest weeps for this doom,_

_The Forest is healing soon,_

_May we free it from this bane,_

_Have it thriving again._

The Elves were singing in the early morning as they danced in the Forest, barefoot on the dewy grass, so lightly they barely left any sign of their steps on it. 

The spring was warm and kind, and the Elven healing magic accompanied each dawn. The Elvenking never failed to send out a group of his men to sing to the trees, and sometimes he would join personally, when it was more needed. 

Legolas, too, would join them rather often, normally. 

That morning at the end of April, he yet again backed down from the task. The King approached him upon their return, slightly frowning, and the Prince knew that there was no more escaping that long-delayed discussion. 

“Legolas, a word.”

He did not seem to be cross. Worried, rather.

“Of course, Adar,” the young Elf agreed, following his father along the narrow corridor that led to the King’s private chambers. 

“Your behaviour is queer, of late. You shy away from your kin, you do not wish to sing to the trees. Is something the matter?”

“Yes,” was all he said, and then he fell silent. 

“Well?”

Legolas took his left hand in his right one, mindlessly fiddling with his own fingers. 

“I feel troubled. I dread the arrival of autumn, this year. I have a feeling that something is coming, I see it… I meet it when I wander in my dreams, and I cannot say whether it is good or bad. Perhaps it is neither, for nothing is coming but the end of another summer, and I am a fool.”

“A fool? I doubt so. If you sense something and it troubles you so, I am afraid we have to expect some concerning event. We shall be even more watchful.” 

Legolas sighed, hardly reassured. 

“Perhaps. Yet I am not sure it concerns the Forest, nor our kin. My distress concerns me, and I do not know what to expect. It is like a calling. What if I long for the sea, Ada? What then…” he confessed, his last sentence spoken in the soft, nearly broken voice of those who, at last, speak of fears that had been long concealed. 

“Legolas,” called the King, a hand on his son’s shoulder, “the Longing does not give warning. It simply arrives. Do you feel the desire to sail?”

“No,” answered Legolas without hesitation. “No, I do not.”

“Then have no fear. Whatever comes, you can count on your father and your kin.”

Legolas gave his father a warm smile, genuinely grateful for his support. He parted his lips to add something, but after a moment, all that came out was a heartfelt “Thank you”. 

As he walked away, he brushed his fingertips against his forearm.

There was one more thing he feared, but of that he dared not speak, not even to his father. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading this second chapter!  
> A note about the song of the Mirkwood Elves: if you’d like to have a tune in mind for it, I was inspired by [this melody](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=1PuIYDyOwc8) from Adrian von Ziegler. The words should fit the rhythm that goes from 0.12 to 0.34, but I encourage you to listen to the whole song and check out the channel if you don’t know it already. You won’t be disappointed!  
> I am so looking forward to the moment Gimli and Legolas meet, but I didn’t want to rush things, and I needed this introspective-ish moments to be part of the story. Le me know what you think so far, if you wish, and to the next chapter!


	3. Mirkwood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Legolas had never expected to even meet his soulmate. Let alone meet him in such an odd situation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!   
> Just one thing before I leave you to the chapter. I’m trying to follow the events as they are presented in the books, so if you’re more familiar with the movie verse you might find a few things a little unfamiliar, but I should have explained everything ^^

What happened next, for a part of the journey, does not significatively stray from the story as you already know it. 

Bilbo Baggins woke up alone the next morning, and at the very last moment he joined the company in their journey. 

And journey on they did, and many people they encountered. They had the pleasure to meet William, Bert and Tom, three jolly fellows whose only displeasing trait was a hunger for Dwarf meat, and whose only weakness was the sunlight that turned them into stone before they could taste any. Such a queer folk, mountain Trolls. 

The Last Homely House, Elrond’s home in Rivendell, lived up to his name. Welcomed to the Valley with jolly songs full of silliness, the Dwarves, Bilbo and Gandalf were treated with regard and had a merry time, with food, music and dance. Despite the little trust between Dwarves and Elves, they were sad that they had to leave- and that gave some of them, and Gimli above all, a lot to think about. 

Then they survived the Goblins and killed the Goblin King, while Bilbo had a queer encounter with Gollum and found a surprisingly useful piece of jewellery. They met Beorn the skin-changer and befriended him, which was quite an accomplishment for Dwarves. And then, one of the most dangerous parts of their journey began- Mirkwood. 

Gandalf had told them not to leave the path. He should not have left them, they all thought so, and felt betrayed almost, despite his company not being part of their contract. Yet they missed his counsel and knowledge when they got lost in the immense Forest, far from the path, unable of finding their way back and victims of the spells of the Shadow that lingered. 

They saw a campfire and thought it meant safety: starved and scared they tried to ask for help to a group of Elves in the middle of the forest. They were feasting and dancing in the night, and as soon as the Dwarves approached them, in the night they disappeared, lights going out, utter darkness enveloping the children of Durin.

Three times they tried to speak to the Elves and three times they found themselves surrounded by nothing but trees and darkness, and the third time was their greatest doom. Thorin was taken away by the Elvenking and his people, and the rest of the company did not even know, because at that point the Spiders found them, blinded by the night, weakened by hunger and fatigue, and made easy preys of them. 

Only Bilbo, thanks to his wit and courage, and aided by his ring- he had found it, so now it was his own!- that turned him conveniently invisible, managed to fool the Spiders and get his friends free. It was later that night, when they started recovering from fear and poison, that they realized Thorin was missing.

They soon found him, for the Elves of Mirkwood captured them and brought them in the same Dungeons where Thorin had been thrown after refusing to tell the Elvenking why they were trespassing his lands. 

And here, again, our story takes a turn you might not be familiar with.

\---

Bilbo was quite pleased with himself. 

After weeks spent wandering the halls of the Elvenking unseen, eating his food and listening to the conversations of his people, he had suddenly come up with a perfect plan. 

Well. Almost perfect. 

He realised at the very last moment that he had not considered how  _ he _ would escape. The Dwarves were all safely packed in the barrels, while he was forced to hold onto one of them as they were being tossed in the water through the trapdoor, the only way out that was not protected by magic. His ring, that made him invisible, was the only reason he could pull it off.

But overall, it worked. The Elves were now gathering the floating barrels, they would deliver them to Lake Town, and…

and then, something went wrong. One of the Elves shook his head vehemently as he gathered the barrel Bilbo was perched on.

“No, there are too many that are not empty. Something is amiss!”

“Galion insists they are! Leave it to him to answer to the King if he made a mistake, we are late already.”

“Galion can blabber all he wants, when the King will ask him for explanations, I have no doubt that he will try to give us a part of the blame.”

“What do you want to do, then? Open all the barrels and close them again? It will take hours.”

“Let us check that one. It floats much too low for any of the goods we are supposed to be delivering.”

Bilbo cursed himself. He was holding onto Bombur’s hideout, of all: his own weight, in addition to that already significative of the Dwarf, resulted in a barrel that was barely floating. 

They were dragged to the bank, and bilbo quickly jumped off, trying not to make any noise as he rolled aside. 

And noise he did not make any, but it was no use. There was green, tall grass everywhere. It was impossible for him to slip away without moving it and crushing it, and it was ridiculous to hope that the Elves, already alerted, would not notice. 

In a moment, they were all around him: all he could do was try and find an opening to run, but unless he suddenly learned to fly, the trail he left on the grass would always get him to be spotted. Behind him was the riverbank, but even if he jumped, they would get him, if the current did not drown him before. 

He had to surrender, he realised. They would put him in a dungeon, too, and take his ring.

He could not let them. As long as he had his ring, he had a chance of getting them all free. So he took a deep breath, and did the only thing that came to his mind. 

What the Elves saw was a big splash in the water, and a moment later a rather soggy hobbit coming to the surface, fumbling in the attempt to cling to the bank. Two pairs of Elven hands dragged him out of the river and put him back on the grass. 

“Well, well,” laughed one the Elves, “what do we have here? We feared an invisible enemy, but this one looks like a harmless hobbit.”

Many echoed his relieved cackling, but a couple of them did not seem ready to relax yet. 

“Who says this one is harmless? He was there, but we could not see him. We dragged him out of the river with one of the King’s barrels. I am not sure an invisible Hobbit that rides barrels is no menace,” pointed out one.

“Indeed. Tell us your name, Hobbit, and explain yourself,” added the second.

Bilbo sputtered and coughed, as if remains of water were still trapped in his throat. He was, of course, buying some time: he had used the few moments he was underwater to take off the ring and stuff if back at the bottom of his pocket, but he had not had the time to think of what to say.

“My name is Bilbo Ba- Bilbo,” he started, deeming it better not to give his full name.

“Very well, Bilbo Babilbo,” insisted the Elf, “how do you explain your queer behaviour?”

They seemed amused, most of them, at least. Perhaps he could get away with it. If he managed to get their attention away from the barrels and convince the Elves to let him go, he could follow the river from a distance and reunite with his companions. 

“I, see, I am no regular Hobbit, that you guessed,” he started, thinking as fast as he could. “I am a burglar, I mean, I-” 

“A burglar! Were you trying to rob our King, then?”

“Not at all! I am a professional burglar, thank you!”

Bilbo was shifting his weight from one foot to the other, as if the ground was burning. He forced himself to stand still and to think faster, then took a deep breath.

“I am a professional burglar. I only steal when it is fair.”

At that, the Elves burst into laughter, which he found rather offensive. He was perhaps embellishing the matter a little, but it was not too distant from reality. 

“I am being serious,” he insisted, stomping a foot and crossing his arms. “I help people to get back what was stolen, to reclaim what was theirs!”

Thorin, at the moment, was stuck inside a barrel half covered in water. Yet, Bilbo could almost feel his gaze behind his neck. He was saying too much.

“Let us say we believe you. You still have not told us what brought you to ride our cargo unseen and unseeable.”

“I was just getting to that, if you would give me the time, good sir!” He complained, taking a deep breath. 

“See, I… made a mistake! I was hired, yes, by a merchant who had been robbed. He said the thief had disguised himself as an old man, and I thought I had found him, near the bank of the river, not too far from here, I believe.”

The Elves were giggling, and Bilbo was aware that his story was already filled with holes. 

“A merchant? In the middle of the woods? He must make poor affairs.”

Chanted one of the most amused-looking Elves, and she was right, indeed. They had strayed from the path and walked many days before stumbling into the Elvenking!

“Oh, no, no! I have been tracking down that old man for weeks!” 

“I thought you said he was only disguised as an old man?”

More laughter from the Elves. Bilbo was struggling to remain calm.

“I told you already, let me finish! Yes, the one I was supposed to find was disguised as an old man. But I made a mistake and followed the tracks of an  _ actual _ old man. I found him sleeping near the river, a hat on his face, and tried to pickpocket him. Alas!”

“Alas?”

“Alas, not only was he a real old man, but he was also a wizard.”

“A wizard!”

Now even the two sternest Elves were laughing softly, making fun of him. Once again, Bilbo was particularly upset: after all, a wizard had been with them for most of the time, up to the edge of the Forest: why was it so unbelievable that he had met one?

“Yes, a wizard! Gandalf, if you must know, and he woke up and was very upset at being pickpocketed, and he threw me in the stream!”

None of the Elves was laughing anymore. Indeed, they looked more distrustful than they had at the beginning. 

“How do you know Mithrandir?” One of them asked, nocking an arrow. Bilbo swallowed and shrieked:

“Who?”

“Gandalf!”

“He told me his name! He- he said how dare I try to rob Gandalf the wizard- and he raised his staff, and there was this flash of light… then I am thrown in the river. You could not see me before, I guess he made me invisible, so that nobody could save me!”

He rattled off the events as he made them up, hoping that it all sounded believable.

“I am lucky that I bumped into one of your barrels, or I would have drowned!”

The Elves spoke among themselves for a while, in that tongue he had overheard sometimes during the past two weeks. He had started picking up something, but all he understood from the conversation were the words “prisoner” and “King”, and that did not sound promising.

“Our King will decide what to do with you. Come with us,” one of them prompted him, and just as they were leaving, he turned to the remaining Elves and added: “and check that barrel, for good measure.”

Bilbo barely held back a gasp. 

He had failed.

\---

To say that the Elvenking was not amused was an understatement of a remarkable size. Thorin had seen him angry before, but now he was furious. There were some things the King of the woodland realm valued over anything else: his treasure, the safety of his people, and his unquestionable authority. At least two of these had been challenged that day. 

He stared at the Dwarves, one by one, not too surprised that each one of them stubbornly held his gaze. Lastly, he turned to the little hobbit that was dripping water on the floor of his throne hall. 

“I shall have a word with their leader,” he said to his guards, pointing at Thorin, “and to our Hobbit. Take the others back  _ and see that they do not escape under your very nose _ , if you can.”

The guards silently obeyed, the one who had been found drunk with Galion particularly willing to look dignified and submissive. However, the strong wine still made his head foggy and his balance unsure- which resulted in a succession of forced stiff movements and unavoidable clumsy stumbling. His companions would have laughed at him, had the situation been less tense. 

“I have been patient,” started the Elvenking, and _ ‘I am not willing to be any further’  _ was left unsaid, but not unheard. “I gave you food and shelter. I could have left you in the Forest, for the spiders to find you and feast upon you. I could have let you starve until you subsided and told me your name and your business. But I did not. And you repay me by attempting to escape with the help of a trickster, by spoiling the goods I was sending to Lake Town with the heavy soles of your boots. Lies, deception, disrespect.”

Bilbo attempted to catch Thorin’s gaze, but it was no good. The Dwarf was staring in front of him, so immovable he seemed set in stone. 

“I told you that I can wait, and that is true. You could live a dozen lives before I even start to acknowledge that some time is passing. What I cannot forgive is the attempt at deceiving me. You shall not leave this hall until I get answers.”

Since Thorin insisted on not moving a muscle, the Elf turned to Bilbo, who was not sure which King he feared the most. Was Thorin upset that his plan had not only failed, but put them out of the frying pan and into the fire? Did he think him low due to the disappointing outcome of their attempted escape? 

“Well, then,  _ Mr. Babilbo _ .”

The Elvenking started, and the Hobbit had no doubt from his tone that, like the rest of the Elves, he had found his sorry attempt at making up a last name very amusing.

“Would you tell me what business you have with these Dwarves?”

Bilbo started providing him with the same version he had given to his guards. Soon, however, under the stern gaze that somehow seemed to be leaning in closer and closer, he started to find his own story absurd and ridiculous. His words trailed off, his voice started to falter, until he could not make another sound. He felt like a little child whose lie had been uncovered. 

“You want me to believe that you have nothing to do with this outrageous attempt to fool me and my people? I am growing tired of your lies.” 

He said, towering over Bilbo. To his credit, the Hobbit did not back down an inch. He kept his mouth shut and his feet well planted on the ground. 

Thorin let out a sigh. He did not want to tell the Elvenking about their quest, but what were the alternatives now? The last time, he alone had been caught, at first. When he found out that the rest of the Company, too, had been captured, Bilbo was still free. There was hope for him to call someone, that unreliable Wizard, or to help them escape, as he had tried to do. 

But now? Gandalf would never know where they were, and certainly now the Elves were going to increase their security measures. They would cast magic on the trapdoor, on the last and smallest of openings, and they would never have another chance.

“Yes? Are you willing to tell me your name and the purpose of your trespassing?” Asked the Elvenking, knowing he had won by the mere sound of that sigh. 

“If I do, and it proves that we meant no harm, will you let us go?”

“That depends on what you say. So? Who are you?”

The Dwarf straightened his back, giving a hard stare, and Bilbo almost winced. Thorin knew how to look like a King, when he wanted, authorial and dignified, majestic and wise. 

“I am Thorin son of Thrain son of Thror King under the Mountain!” 

Thranduil’s victorious smile faltered for an instant due to the sudden surprise. Then he raised his chin, tilted his head slowly to the side, and slightly parted his lip, his tongue clicking briefly. 

“Ah.”

He said, and his smile was back as he sat down on his throne, his elbow pinned against the armrest, his long fingers under his chin, and -Bilbo could swear it- his pupils dilated. 

“Tell me everything, son of Thrain.”

\---

“They’re back,” said Gimli, Fíli and Kíli with one voice. As the youngest, and conveniently the ones who had been packed more comfortably inside apple barrels, they had told the others to rest while they kept watch. 

The Dwarves had been all temporarily closed in a wide cell, with many cots at the back, while the individual cells they had occupied before were thoroughly examined. After all, they had all escaped and the keys were still safely attached to the guard’s belt. 

The rest of the company jumped off the beds and hastily approached the door, but the guards that accompanied Thorin and Bilbo made them stand back before they opened the cell and led the Dwarf and Hobbit inside. 

“You shall be brought before the King tomorrow morning, Thorin son of Thrain.”

“My answer shall not change. But thank you.”

They were locked in, and the guards moved to another part of the dungeons- in all likelihood to interrupt the search of the cells, since Bilbo had confessed about stealing the keys. Luckily, his lie about having an invisibility cape that was dragged away when he fell in the water the second time was believable enough that his precious ring was still safe in his pocket.

“Did you tell them your name?”

“Do they know who we are?”

“They know about the quest?”

“What does he want tomorrow?”

“Answer to what?” 

“Have a plan?”

“What are we going to do?”

“One at a time!”

Cried Bilbo, while Thorin tried to decide what answers to give, and in which order. 

“He knows everything, or most of it, anyway. He knows now why we entered the Forest and where we are going.” 

“And? Is he not letting us go?”

“He might. But he posed some conditions I am not willing to comply with.”

There was a number of groans and shaking heads. 

“Of course he would pose some unreasonable conditions. What does he want? Part of the treasure, I bet.”

Dori was not wrong, and Thorin nodded.

“Well,” Balin said, tentatively, “I suppose we might consider giving him some gems. Not that I like the idea, but if that is all he asks for… I see no alternatives if we want to leave this place.”

“You are quite correct, Balin,” agreed Thorin, “believe me. We have no hope to escape now that we were caught one time in the attempt. But that is not all he asks for, and I would rather rot here than let him have his way.” 

Of course, the Dwarves insisted, and there was little Thorin could do to keep the rest of the King’s offer from them. Bilbo prompted him to speak, too, for they had the right to know- even though no one would like it, as the two of them had not liked it first.

“He wants a guarantee that we will pay once we reclaim the Mountain. He asks us to leave one of us behind, like a token to be exchanged.”

A heavy silence fell upon the company at that, until Nori tried to lift the mood. 

“Well, we can leave Bombur. If we sneak away while he’s asleep, there’s good chance he won’t have awoken yet when we get back for him.”

“Oi!”

That did lift some chuckle, and even Thorin smiled, if bitterly.

“However,” Bombur considered, “if there is no other way, we should think about it. I could agree to stay, after all.”

“You only want to eat and sleep until we’ve dealt with the worst part,” Bofur accused him, “but he’s not wrong,” he added. 

“None of us would be happy to leave one behind, but we all would volunteer, for the sake of our home, am I right?”

“I am afraid there is no volunteering,” Bilbo cut it short. 

“He specifically insisted that the youngest of our company is to remain here,” he explained, and as expected a long silence followed. They were considering the possibility to accept, but no one was even thinking of leaving behind Gimli, nor Kíli or Fíli, since neither of them had come of age yet.

“Over my dead body,” Glóin spat out, breaking the silence. “I’ll stay here myself and the Elvenking will have to deal with it. Gimli is leaving.”

“We both offered to stay, and we told him that others would volunteer in his stead,” intervened Bilbo, sighing deeply. “He insists that he wants the younger Dwarf to stay because the rest are more likely to keep to their word.”

“Does he believe we would abandon one of our companions here, never to return?”

“He believes we might, yes, Balin,” said Thorin, gravely. “But he knows that we value family and thinks us less likely to abandon one of our children.”

“Except I am no child, and I shall stay, if that is the Elvenking’s condition.”

All the Dwarves, and Bilbo, too, turned to Gimli, more troubled than surprised. Not one of them expected him to back away from the task, on the contrary, they knew he would insist to sacrifice himself. Of course, not one of them was willing to let him, not even Fíli and Kíli, on whose support he could usually count.

Yet the son of Glóin had proven many times to be a stubborn Dwarf, and the situation they were in did look desperate. They spent the night discussing, trying to convince him to let go of the idea, despite the alternative being to rot away in those dungeons, all of them.

\---

_ “What if we fail! This is a dangerous quest, what if we do not survive? My son will be doomed to spend the eternity here.” _

_ “Well, the Elvenking said he will let us get him back, or send him back home, in case he is informed of our failure. Not that it changes anything, Gimli is not staying.” _

_ “What is the harm if I do? The Elves have not been unkind captors, we must admit. All I have to do is wait in a cell.” _

_ “No, actually, not in a cell. He said he would move you to a proper room. As a guest, he said.” _

_ “Bilbo Baggins, on whose side are you?” _

_ “On yours, Glóin, on yours! I was just repeating what I heard.” _

_ “Don’t.” _

_ “Adad, Mister Baggins is not doing anything wrong. The terms seem fair, to me. I will stay in a room until you come back to get me. ‘T was what you wanted me to do from the beginning, right?” _

_ “I wanted you to stay home! With your mother, under Dís’ lead. Not in the hands of the Elf that has been keeping us captive for weeks.” _

_ “Gimli, you insisted so much to be part of this, why are you so eager to be left behind?” _

_ “I wanted to come because I wanted to be helpful, Thorin. This is the most helpful I can be, right now. And besides, what choice do we have?” _

\---

“Good morning, Thorin. I hear that it was a night of little rest and much arguing. Have you come to a decision?”

“You give us no choice but to comply,” answered Thorin through gritted teeth.

“At last, I hear you speak wisely.”

“There can be no wisdom when there is no free will!”

“Now, now,” said the Elvenking shaking his head softly, “peace. I am not your enemy.”

“See that the lad is not mistreated. Harm a hair on his head, and when we come back, I shall only spare your life because to take it will be an honour I will leave to his father.”

“Your tongue is longer than your beard, Thorin son of Thrain. See that you keep it still. On my part, I shall keep your young kinsman comfortable and well-fed until your return.”

“And if something happens to us, you shall send him back.”

“I will see him escorted out of the Forest and on the safe path as soon as I hear of your demise. I already gave you my word.”

“See that it can be trusted.”

\---

Gimli followed in silence the guards that were leading him to the King. He could still feel the warmth of his father’s embrace, before their parting that morning. He had been allowed to say his goodbyes to the departing company before being escorted to the room he would occupy from that moment.

It was wide and comfortable, if a little naked. The bed was soft, the table and chair of the proper height- surprisingly thoughtful, indeed. A small fireplace was at the back of the room, cold and clean, some chucks of wood inside and some on the floor next to it- remains of a previous lodger, perhaps.

There was even a wooden wardrobe, where several covers and a some clean, plain, brown garments had been stored. Inside he found his pack, too. Everything that resembled a weapon had been removed, but his spare travelling clothes were still there, as well as his comb and his bedroll, though the latter was not going to be of use, in there.

On the bedtable and under the bed there was the bare minimum needed for late-night and early morning ablutions and sudden needs. During the day, he was allowed to visit the baths whenever needed, under the escort of a guard.

Apparently, the King wanted a word with him now.

Surely he could not have upset him in a matter of hours, yet as he walked behind the guards, his uneasiness kept growing, gnawing at his throat and stomach like a lazy cat playing with a mouse.

He had insisted to be left there, indeed. There was no other option, it was the only sensible thing to do, and he was glad that the company had finally complied- yet he felt terribly alone. Within the grand halls, among so many unfamiliar faces, unable to foresee the challenges his friends and family were to face, unable to guess when they would be back, if ever… it was a hard task not to feel abandoned. It was a hard task not to feel scared.

He would never admit it, but he was, indeed, afraid. Gimli was a proud Dwarf, and very brave, but he had never travelled that far before, and never alone. Not to mention being in the halls of an unknown, hostile King.

Still, he did not flinch as he was led into the throne room.

What he did was, instead, try to gather all the information he could. He had learnt to trust the Elves of Rivendell, whose hospitality had succeeded in making the Dwarves reluctant to leave. But those were not of the same sort, clearly!

Apart from several guards, two figures caught his attention. One was the King: he had seen him the previous day and held his inquiring gaze. Perhaps it had been then that the Elf had noticed his young age: unlike his cousins, who were nearing their coming of age (and would not show any sign of aging since then until their last decade of life, as any other Dwarf), Gimli did look much younger than the rest.

The second figure he had never seen before: another Elf, very much alike the King in his looks and attire, yet wearing a thin circlet instead of a crown of twigs and berries. He must have been a Prince, either the King’s brother, or his son, or nephew. It was difficult to guess the age.

The Prince looked upset, to say the least. As Gimli was led before them and bowed his head politely, they barely acknowledged his presence.

“Was it not enough to make them sign a contract?”

“Do not question my decision any further. If anything, I am doing a favour to this child. I can hardly see this ridiculous quest being successful. Either I am proven wrong and receive my due payment, or I will have saved him from perishing with the rest of them.”

“Father!”

Gimli’s stomach had, indeed, twitched at the words of the King. Did he truly deem it so desperate a mission? How would he know and how could he sound so sure?

Mahal. In that moment, the Prince’s outrage at such little consideration of Gimli’s fragile emotional state was a welcome sign of empathy.

The King turned to him with piercing eyes, needing no words to catch his full attention.

“Listen, now. You have no enemies here unless you prove an enemy to us. Do not attempt to flee, nor to do any harm. You are allowed to leave your room escorted if needed, you are not allowed to keep any weapon. As long as you behave, consider yourself a guest with restrictions.”

“Yes, ‘O Elvenking.”

Gimli was relieved, after all. He had already been told all of that, and the King in all likelihood merely summoned him to intimidate him personally.

“Good,” said the Prince with a polite smile. “I am sure that our  _ guest,  _ then, will find himself at home. Master…?”

“Gimli,” he said, bowing low, “son of Glóin son of Gróin. At your service.”

He had not planned to be so complacent, but the Prince seemed at least polite towards him, and it was a matter of honour to answer him in kind. Had he not bowed in such a pompous manner, as was the custom of his people, he would have seen both the Elves in front of him -and a good number of guards- widen their eyes. 

The Prince’s legs almost gave way and, as he stilled himself by leaning his hand against the throne, he turned to his father, who shook his head as to assure him that he did not know.

It lasted an instant. When Gimli was back standing upright, the King was as collected as ever, and his son concealed his nervousness with forced speech.

“Oropher”, he said with a smile, and bowed in turn. “Oropher son of Thranduil. Be welcome in these halls.”

And as soon as Gimli had left the room, Legolas collapsed on the throne, a hand pressed against his forehead.

“Leave us alone,” ordered the King, “and bring us some fine wine.”

\---

“I cannot believe it!”

“Do calm down.”

“Of all the mortals that visit this world you take  _ my soulmate  _ as a hostage!”

“Hostage is a strong word, and soulmate an even stronger one. How do you know he is not merely a homonym?”

“How many have you met, in all your long centuries, bearing that name?”

“…”

“He is the first, is he not? Besides, he wears an armband.”

“He could be wearing it as a sign of mourning.”

“I fail to see how someone who is barely too old to be called a child could be a widow.”

“Very well, I see your point and I cannot disagree. Odds are it is him, indeed. How do you intend to proceed?”

“I am not doing anything.”

“Oh?”

“I have long accepted the fact that the Valar pulled a cruel prank on me. I never expected this… Gimli to appear before me. This morning I did not even know if he had already existed, already died. I could not say if he was ever supposed to exist. Now I know that he does, and what should I do with that?” Asked Legolas, emptying his glass of wine before he continued.

“Should I throw away the effort it took me to accept my lonely fate, in sight of a couple of centuries with someone who might be my soulmate as much as he might just be the other victim of a sad prank? Grow affectionate to him, perhaps, then live in eternal mourning? Assuming he wants anything to do with me, which is farfetched, given the armband he wears. No, no. Soon he will be on his way; just do him no harm in the meantime, please.”

“I must confess I am relieved by your words, my son.”

“Because you get to keep your  _ trading commodity _ ?”

“ _ Because _ you shall not share the fate of Lúthien Tinúviel.”

“I was never supposed to. How could it be? A mortal, a Dwarf, and so far from the times of friendship between the Firstborn and the Children of Aulë. As long as he stays here, I am Oropher, son of Thranduil. This unfortunate event shall be forgotten soon.”

\---

To resolve is one thing, yet to stay faithful to one’s resolve, it takes great effort. Legolas had perhaps bitten off more than he could chew deciding to ignore Gimli’s presence in the halls of his father.

He found himself walking past the door of his room often enough to feel ashamed to be seen by the two guards on duty. He never heard a sound from inside the room, hard as he tried to listen. He was more curious every passing day about that Gimli, and there was nothing unusual about it, was there? 

It was perfectly normal to be a little interested in seeing him again, just to  _ understand, _ to see how ludicrous a conceit it was that a Dwarf and an Elf could be soulmates, how cruel the Valar had been in making a living joke out of them. 

Or, perhaps, to see if they could tolerate each other, to decide if, in another time, another context, another story, they could have been  _ something _ . 

For some reason, Legolas had a feeling that the latter option would have made him feel… comforted, somehow.

The desire to know started growing stronger day after day. He needed to know that they were not so tremendously different, that cruel as it was to give a mortal as a soulmate to an Elf, at least they could have had a chance of happiness, in another age. That their existence, their fate, their bond was a miscalculation of time and place, rather than a twisted joke.

And yet, for many days he did not approach him. He would stop for a moment sometimes, speak to the guards, ask whether any problem had arisen with their  _ guest,  _ and leave with a nod at their negative answer. That Dwarf was not a troublemaker, at least- or so it seemed until one morning when, unexpectedly, the usual routine changed.

Legolas noticed it from the very end of the corridor. The door of the room was open, and he could hear indistinct voices, presumably from inside the room, presumably belonging to the Guards and to Gimli.

Why was he suddenly feeling so  _ excited _ ? His heart was pounding as he approached the door. That was it, his chance to see him, to speak to him. To  _ know _ .

Still, his excitement turned to worry as he reached the room.

One of the guards was pointing his spear at the very upset Dwarf, while the other was speaking in a commanding voice:

“We have very precise orders, Dwarf, and you had been warned. You shall be taken to the dungeons and the King will be informed of your transgression.”

“For the last time,” shouted Gimli, clearly losing his patience, if ever he had had any, “I meant no harm! How is that a weapon?”

“Please follow us without resisting.”

No.  _ No.  _ He had not even got a chance to speak to that  _ accursed creature _ yet. If he were taken back to the dungeons, Legolas would never manage to meet him again without purposely going down there to visit him, implicitly admitting to everyone else, to himself, and worst of all, to the Dwarf that he  _ wanted  _ to speak to him.

He stepped in, clearing his voice, at which the two guards turned to stand at attention and Gimli rolled his eyes, probably believing his any chance to remain in that room lost.

“What is the matter?” Asked Legolas, forcing himself not to look too conceited.

“My Lord,” started one of the guards, showing him something that looked like a piece of cutlery, “the prisoner has stolen and hidden a knife after one of his meals. He is not allowed to keep any weapon-”

“How. Is. That. A. Weapon.”

Legolas’ eyes darted at Gimli, whose words, despite being delivered impolitely and without any attempt to conceal how fed-up he was, were not exactly wrong.

“He was not supposed to be given a sharp knife. Let me see,” he told the guard, reaching out and taking the object to inspect it. Indeed, it was not sharp, nor pointy. A dull blade, almost too dull even for a meal, let alone hurt a guard, or himself. A fork would have been a more effective weapon, indeed. Besides, it looked rather damaged. Scratched in many points, the edge uneven.

“What have you been doing with this, to ruin it so?”

The Dwarf, who had been so eager to defend himself just moments before, went silent at that question.

“I agree with you that this is hardly dangerous. Just explain what you took this knife for and we might forget this accident,” insisted the Elf, while a thought started forming in his mind.

At Gimli’s stubborn silence, he began looking about the room. A wardrobe, a small table and a chair to eat his meals, a bed to rest and a bedtable were all the furniture given to the Dwarf. A barred skylight let in the sunbeams, but that was all: no torches nor oil lamps. Was he allowed to handle fire to warm himself up, but not to make light?

“Were was the knife hidden?”

“Under the pillow, Prince- Prince Oropher.”

Legolas moved towards the bed, where something immediately caught his eyes, something that, perhaps, confirmed his suspicions. There was some fine debris on the floor.

Had the Dwarf been trying to dig his way out of the room? Surely he knew how impossible that was, but…

_ Please, Aule, tell me that this child of yours is not that stupid. _

“What the hell are you- don’t touch it!”

Despite Gimli’s protest, which actually made him even more suspicious, the Elf grabbed the large headboard of the bed and pulled hard, almost sure that he would find the wall behind it scratched, at the very least.

A tiny spider rushed away from the sudden light, headed to find a new place to hide now that his web had been destroyed. Apart from that, the wall showed no other anomaly.

_ Thud,  _ came from the ground, and something that had apparently fallen from behind the mattress rolled right at Legolas’ feet.

Gimli groaned as the Elf kneeled down, picking up the small piece of wood from the floor.

“Oh,” he muttered, turning his head towards the bed. He slipped an arm between the mattress and the headboard and pulled out two more similar pieces. Very bad attempts at carved decorations could be seen all around their surface, while the one that had fallen off had been roughly shaped to resemble… probably a living creature. Either a Dwarf, a child, a bear, or a strange duck. Given the identity of the artist, he would guess the first to be correct.

Recognizing now the debris on the floor as woodchip, Legolas got back on his feet and turned to the guards.

“There is no need to worry. You can get back to your positions.”

“My Lord…”

“Yes?”

“We have orders.”

“My father has instructed you to take hum to the dungeons if he were to resist or rebel. All he did was borrow a piece of cutlery to pass some time carving wood. I suppose it must be terribly boring in here. But of course, you can complain to the King if you do not trust my judgment.”

“No, my Lord. Forgive us,” intervened the other guard, with a sharp look at her companion.

“Very well. You are excused. Leave us alone, I wish to speak to Master Gimli of the matter,” he said, and to say his name out loud almost made his mouth go dry.

Alone, indeed. At last.

“Would you help me?”

Asked Legolas, placing his hands against one side of the headboard. Without a word, Gimli got to the other side and they pushed it back against the wall, for the delight of the little spider that would soon come out of his temporary accommodation to rebuild his home.

“So, I can stay?”

Mumbled the Dwarf, looking rather sceptical.

“Of course, you have done nothing wrong. Had you simply asked, there would have been no misunderstanding to begin with, but- I understand your reticence. It is our fault for not thinking that you would need something to kill time.”

“If you say so, Your Highness.”

Legolas’ patience faltered for a moment. He was doing nothing but showing kindness, the Dwarf could have  _ tried  _ to be polite.

Yet- it was only logical that he would not trust him. He had been taken away from a dungeon where he was, at least, with his kin, only to be left behind, thrown in an empty room, and left alone to spend every day without anything to do but thinking and overthinking. It had been almost a fortnight- how could he not be crossed?

“I fail to understand, however. Why did you not tell? They were going to take you away, why did you not explain yourself, even when asked directly?”

Gimli seemed to consider whether to answer or not. In the end, he shrugged and took one of the logs that were lying on the mattress.

“It looks terrible.”

He admitted, glaring at it disappointedly.

It took Legolas a few moments to realize that it was not a mere consideration, but an actual answer to his question.

“Pride? Is that it? You would have gone back to a cell rather than show-”

“It’s not just pride,” snapped Gimli, then, regaining some composure: “It is not merely a matter of pride. It is my craft.”

“Your craft? You mean that it is your job?”

“No, it… it is a Dwarven thing.”

“Is it a secret?”

“Not really. I doubt you care, however.”

“I would not ask, in that case.”

“Let us just say… most Dwarves are particularly gifted for some kind of craftmanship. I am the best woodcarver of my age in Erebor. But- I usually work with better tools, and without all the shivering.”

Legolas nodded, taking the Dwarven(ish)- shaped statue to have a better look at it.

“Indeed, rough as it is, I am surprised that you managed to do this with nothing but a dull blade. I am no expert, but I doubt I could have even scratched the wood with that,” he considered, then: “shivering?”

“Ah, yes. The depts of the Blue Mountains are very warm.”

Now that the Dwarf had mentioned it, Legolas could not help but realize that there was a slight but constant trembling in his voice.

“Are you cold here?”, asked the Elf, automatically looking at the mantelpiece. No fire, no ashes, tinder and matches untouched- he had never used it.

Gimli only scoffed, but the Elf insisted.

“You said it makes you shiver. Why did you not light the fire? Do you know how to do it?”

“Of course I do, who do you think I am?” Snapped Gimli, outraged. His father and his uncle were the ones responsible for lighting fires during their quest. His side of the family was known for having an aptitude for that, their campfires always being the quickest to rise, the longest to last, and the more efficient. They always brought tinder and matches with them, and Gimli made no exception.

“I did not want to waste the wood, that is all.”

“Waste…?”

Legolas blinked in confusion, while the Dwarf’s discomfort seemed to grow.

“Yes. Waste. I would rather have something to do and still being cold than warm myself up for a night and be doomed to stare at the ceiling for who knows how long,” he scoffed, clearly upset that he had to admit it out loud. The Elf, however, seemed to be at loss still.

“I fail to understand. What are you saying? The wood would have been refurnished, had you used it.”

“Would it?”

Gimli’s surprise was so genuine that Legolas’ heart sunk, dragged down by the sudden understanding.

Had he spent his nights suffering from the cold because he was afraid that he would have no more wood to carve? 

“Of course. It was for you to use at need. Why else did you think it was there?”

“I thought it was just some leftover. How would I know?”

The Dwarf, after the initial surprise, had gone back to scoffing and growling like a trapped animal- and to be fair, perhaps he was not so different.

“We lack the mortal perception of cold, or heat. We are far less affected by weather conditions, and rarely have guests.”

The Prince tried to explain, pretending not to notice Gimli mocking the word “guests”.

“This is one of the few rooms to even have a fireplace. It was meant for your comfort, Master Dwarf.”

“Ah.”

Legolas could clearly hear the hint of sarcasm in the Dwarf’s voice, and he could not blame him for that. He thought of him- with all probability his own soulmate, alone in that room almost empty, enduring the cold for the fear that he would lose his only way to make the passing of time a little less slow, a little less unbearable. 

_ Ensure that he is fed and treated fairly,  _ he had said to himself.  _ Give him a room, food and shelter, until his kin return for him, and your heart shall be content, you shall have no remorse.  _

Such a foolish belief. Had he been so simple-minded as to truly believe it? Or was it a sorry attempt at self-deceit, a lie he told himself to conceal from his very mind and heart the extent of the challenge he was faced with? 

“Yes, for your comfort, Master Dwarf. Please use it accordingly.”

He whispered, already marching towards the door.  _ Slower, slower, _ his mind kept telling him.  _ You are fleeing. Slower. He must not see through you.  _

How suddenly had panic raised, how unexpectedly had his knees started trembling when empathy hit!

And when he closed the door behind him, when he locked the Dwarf away in the hollow attempt to strip himself of his troubled feeling, oh what a  _ wrong relief _ washed over him, oh what uneasiness clung onto him as his rushed heartbeat slowed down to its usual pace- usual, yet somehow changed forever. 

“Make sure he never lacks firewood.”

He ordered in a whisper, struggling to keep his voice firm, before leaving swift and quiet as a leaf, his own turmoil blowing him away in the stead of the gentle autumn breeze. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok this chapter was so long- I should have split it in two, but… I wanted to upload some G/L interaction! It’s Valentine’s after all.  
> I forget about this every time, but I’m on Tumblr! You can find me [here!](http://the-dwelf-ao3.tumblr.com/)  
> If you’d like to, follow me, I love chatting about LOTR and Gimli/Legolas and- well, make new friends!


	4. Cold nights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rescuing small, upset, furry abandoned creatures from freezing to death at night? Another day in the life of Legolas.

“You look troubled.”

“Father?”

Thranduil was staring at the bunch of grapefruit in front of him as he spoke, slightly upset at that single rotten grape that had escaped the attention of the Elf in charge of preparing and serving his fruit. 

“Dawiel, too, must be distracted tonight. But I am more concerned about you, at the moment,” added the King as he put aside the grape that had attempted to offend his taste. 

“Forgive my inattentiveness, father. I meant no disrespect, believe me.”

“I have not taken any offence, yet I had not witnessed my son so absent-minded for a long time. I ask myself whether I should worry.”

Legolas shifted on the chair. He had not inherited his father’s ability to conceal the disturbances of the _fëa,_ or perhaps he had never truly intended to learn the skill. 

“I fear I am overthinking some minor issues. Some rest and a song to the Valar will ease my mind.”

“Would you not share with me the _minor issues_ that rob you of appetite and speech?”

“My thoughts are confused, and my mind is much too tired to sort them out. I could not voice them to save my life, not when I fail to understand myself. Please forgive me.”

With no further word, Legolas stood up, answered his father’s nod of the head in kind, and withdrew to his chambers. 

“He fails to understand,” muttered Thranduil, slowly peeling one of the grapes. “As if.” 

He squeezed the greenish piece of fruit between two fingers, mashing it instantly. He stared at it with surprise for a moment, as if he had not even realized what he was doing, then he put the remains aside with the previously discarded grape and carefully sucked the sugary juice from his fingertips. 

“As if we both did not know that it is about the Dwarf.”

\---

Legolas’ ability to remain closed in his bedroom alone with his own thoughts lasted a ludicrously short time. As soon as the night breeze started to sing its tune, the Elf left the terrifying silence of his chambers and joined the wood in its dance. He walked among the trees he knew so well, moving in graceful harmony with their branches and leaves, with the grass shivering around his feet, as the moonlight kissed his pale skin with every step. 

He felt at home, wandering among the oaks he used to climb as a child, the pines he had named one by one, the beeches whose piles of scarlet fallen leaves used to be his favourite hiding place. 

And yet, not even there was his heart at ease, that night. He had not-so-unconsciously tried to get closer to the Dwarf for weeks, and now that he had managed to, he found himself tremendously troubled. 

A faint sound startled him from his thoughts, making him turn in search of its origin. Nestled between the roots of a maple tree, a small bird was chirping mildly.

Legolas approached it carefully. A quick scouting of the surroundings was all it took him to find the scattered remains of a nest. It must have been a wild animal, judging from the traces. With all likelihood the little bird was the only survivor of some predator that had filled its stomach with the parents, and perhaps brothers and sisters. 

Taking a clean handkerchief from his tunic, he scooped up the little nestling, minding not to touch it directly for fear of getting dirt on the delicate, possibly injured, barely plumed skin.

“You’re freezing," he whispered as he turned on his heels and headed back to the castle. 

“But it’s not too late for you. I know where you can warm up tonight. Just hold on a little longer, hm?”

The bird gave another faint chirp. Legolas rushed.

\---

Meanwhile, in the palace, Gimli was curled over himself in his bed, the sound of his own chattering teeth as his sole company. It was like that every night.

The cold reached deep within his very bones, despite the clothes and the thick covers. The Elvenking lived in caves, but it was nothing like the heart of a mountain. In the middle of the woods, with the river flowing by, in that empty room- nights were cold. 

It _affected him more_ every night. 

During the day, the sun would fill the room directly and bring warmth. But when it set, the temperature would drop in a matter of hours. 

It made him weak and feverish, it did not let him sleep. Gimli knew that he only had to endure until sunrise, but he was weaker after every restless nigh.

His thoughts were almost constantly on the fireplace, especially after what had happened earlier that day. The Elf had said they would supply him the firewood- and, of course, he did not trust it in the slightest.

Of course, even if they did not, the stock there was enough to make his life easier for a while, if he was good at rationing it. It was enough to keep a good fire alive for a whole night, but he could divide it into four, perhaps five parts, and only warm up the room a little during the coldest few hours. If he moved the bed closer to the fireplace, it would be enough to give him some good sleep. 

He could alternate two, perhaps three nights enduring cold and lack of sleep to a single, restful night of slight warmth. It would help him go on for two, perhaps three weeks, even. 

Of course, there was the risk that he did not manage to hold back once he started. He had a decent self-control, as any proper Dwarf should, and as any proper Dwarf he was sturdy and resistant. Yet now that he was at his limit, he could not vouch for his own self-restraint.

Besides, using the wood would mean having nothing left to do during the long days he was spending there. No more woodcarving meant losing his mind for good. He was alone with nothing at all to do except that one thing. His craft. _His mother's legacy_. He could not bear to stop and think of her, for he missed her deeply and a part of his was ashamed that he had not managed to keep his promise of being safe. He was prisoner of the Elves and if she knew, it would break her heart. Woodcarving was the only way Gimli had to sense her presence without feeling a lump in his throat. 

He had made these considerations over and over, and the conclusion was always the same- he could not risk wasting the only thing that kept him in his right mind. 

However… 

_"The wood would have been replenished, had you used it.”_

That was what the Elven Prince had said. But- he could not trust him. He could not put something so important at stake on the word of an Elf. He had been polite, yes, and did not seem as hostile as his father. Yet even if his words were truly meant, how could he be sure his people would remember? 

He was not going to see him anymore, in all likelihood. Of course, he could just _ask_ for more firewood. 

But-! To ask for something! No, he would rather freeze to his death (an outcome that did not seem so farfetched now.)

He knew that he could not take it any longer, and despite himself, despite all his ponderings, he decided to use a part of that wood.

A fifth, not more than that. It would give him a break and still leave him plenty of material to work with. If he was very lucky, the Elves might actually provide him with some more. Not that they had ever given any sign of wanting to bring him wood or of caring if he used it or not, but they had been fair with food and clean linen. Perhaps… perhaps. 

As soon as the decision was made, Gimli found himself excited at the idea of finally having some crackling fire, but the anticipation was just as pleasant as it was short lived, and the high peak his mood reached of a sudden only made the fall more hurtful.

It was impossible for him to reach the fireplace and light it up. He could not even think of slipping out of the covers without shaking violently, and the ache in his muscles and bones was so intense he could barely shift his legs- let alone walk to the other side of the room.

The fireplace was right there, he could see it if he managed to stick his head out just enough. So close. Yet he could not get to it.

It was at that point that hopelessness washed over him stronger than it ever had since his people had left. He was freezing and it could not be helped. He would probably fall sick for good, one night or the other, and die within those four walls before his father could come back for him. 

He was about to weep, curled into the bed, under the covers, wishing he had heavier clothes, wishing he had lit up the fireplace before it was so cold that he could hardly move, wishing he had never been left behind. 

Just when his eyes were starting to get wet, a sudden knock on the door made him swallow back the knot that was closing his throat. 

It was the middle of the night. Had the guards heard him sobbing? Was he sobbing at all? He thought he was silently weeping, yet everything seemed confused at that moment. 

One more knock, followed by a voice. 

"Master Dwarf? Master Gimli, are you awake?"

He blinked a couple of times, surprised. It was the Prince; he recognized the voice. What on the earth was he doing there in the middle of the night?

"Ye-es?" He answered, trying to still his voice and failing miserably. 

"I have a matter of a certain urgency. May I come in?"

He wiped his eyes against his sleeve quickly, mentally cursing the terrible timing. He could not deny him access to the room when he was the Prince and Gimli nothing but a prisoner, after all.

"It is- yo- your cas-tle," he managed through the shivers, almost dragging himself to the border of the bed. He could not stay under the covers while the accursed Prince of that accursed place was in that accursed room with him. 

So, when the door was unlocked and the Elf walked in, Gimli had managed to climb off the bed and was now standing on the floor, his entire body shaking restlessly despite his efforts to stay still and his legs barely keeping him up. 

"Prince O-Oropher," he started, but before he could finish the Elf had jolted in front of him and was staring at him with what looked like deep concern on his face. 

"You are freezing as well!" He cried, and Gimli frowned in confusion at the "as well", before his eyes came to rest upon the bundle of handkerchief and thin feathers that the Prince was holding in his left hand. 

"Why did you not light the fire? I told you to. Did you listen? Did I speak Quenya?" He asked, then, unexpectedly, he bent over and pressed his lips against Gimli's forehead. The Dwarf stepped back automatically, trampling in the bed behind him and landing his bottom right on the mattress. 

"You're burning up. Hold this," he said, handing the little bird to the Dwarf. Gimli widened his eyes, slightly panicking. He could barely manage to sit up straight, and he was trembling hard, how could that Elf think it was a good idea to put a small, living creature in his hands? 

"I-I can't," he started, but the Prince was pulling the covers from the bed and, before Gimli could finish the sentence, he had wrapped him in thick layers of wool. 

"Just stay still a moment," he instructed as he took off his cloak and added it on top of the blankets. 

The Dwarf nodded as the Elf walked towards the fireplace, too weak to protest and too focused on not dropping the bird to think of anything else, anyway.

“Little one…” he mouthed as he pressed his arms against his body to limit the shaking of his hands. It was a nestling, its exposed skin coloured in shades of pink and grey, a blackish fluff on the wings and near the tail. 

Gimli was, for some reason, mesmerized at the little life that was snuggling up against the handkerchief in his palms, looking for the warmth it would normally find against the bodies of its siblings and parents. He did not know what had happened, nor why the Elf had taken it there, but Gimli felt the urge to protect it at all costs. 

When Legolas- or perhaps we should say Oropher, as he went by those days- looked up from the now lit fireplace, what appeared before his eyes was… unexpected. The Dwarf, still trembling slightly under his shell of blankets, had a new spark in his eyes, beaming despite his sorry state, his gaze fixed on the bird in his hands. He was humming what Legolas supposed to be a Dwarven lullaby, and the Elf stood staring at them dumbfounded long enough to witness Gimli as he stopped to whisper soothing words to the tiny creature. 

“You’ll be okay,” he promised through chattering teeth, clearly not okay himself.

If an Elven heart, or any heart, could melt, Legolas’ would have liquefied in that very moment. 

Fortunately, his flesh and bones were wise enough not to fall into pieces, unlike his sanity, and step by step led him back near the bed, his face somehow back to displaying nothing but a polite concern.

“Master Gimli?” He called, gesturing towards the fire. “I believe both you and our little friend might use a closer look at the fireplace. Perhaps you shall learn what it is supposed to look like at night?” 

He teased, offering his hand for the other to hold onto. Gimli, mistakenly believing the Prince to be sharing his over worry that he might drop the bird, carefully placed the bundle onto his palm, that Legolas promptly shaped into a cup in order not to give away the misunderstanding. 

“Can you stand?” He asked, raising his voice a little over the protesting cheeps coming from inside his palm. “I believe it liked you better…”

“She,” Gimli corrected him, and, “I can very well walk,” he muttered, standing on his shaking legs and nearly falling down in the attempt. 

“How would you know it’s a _she_? And,” he hooked Gimli’s arm with his free one, “I beg to differ. Lean on me, please.” 

He led the Dwarf to the fireplace and sat in front of it with him, handing back the little bird as soon as they were comfortably set. The upset, if weak, tweets ceased at once. 

“Children,” he complained, shaking his head theatrically, “you give them everything, then they meet someone new and suddenly don't want to have anything to do with you."

He thought -but he could not be sure- that, among the shivers given by the cold wearing off, there was some shaking due to slight mirth in Gimli. As for what this storyteller knows, Gimli was indeed laughing, though it was due to the sudden relief rather than an actual talent of the Elf as a comedian.

"What makes you say it's a female? It is too young to tell!"

"I just know that she is. She cheeps like a young lady."

Legolas would have protested further at that unsatisfying explanation, but someone brought the chamomile tea he had asked for and the conversation was cut off. He poured a cup for Gimli, and the Dwarf accepted it, thanking him politely and mentally cursing. He generally liked brews, though of course he preferred a nice mug of ale, but chamomile… he could not stand the flavour, no sir. Yet he could not refuse; he quietly gulped down the cup as fast as he could without looking impolite. To be fair, the generous amount of honey and the warmth that the hot beverage sent through his body made it much more bearable than he had expected. 

"Thank you."

"Master Gimli, I came here because I found this orphaned bird in the woods and it needed warmth. I believed this room would be the only one where I would find a lit-up fireplace at this hour. How come I was mistaken?" 

The Dwarf did not answer immediately. It felt a little foolish to say it out loud, now. 

"I still did not want to waste the wood." 

"Understandable that you would not trust my promise of not being left without. After all, we are not in the middle of an enormous forest." 

"I wanted to use some before," Gimli defended himself, staring at the fire to avoid looking directly at him. 

"But?"

"But I could not bring myself to walk to the fireplace. I couldn't even feel my own bones," he admitted, lowering his gaze to his hands.

"I think she's sleeping," he added, and Legolas reached out for a small basket that had been brought upon his request together with the chamomile. A clean, soft-looking cloth was placed on the bottom, and nothing else. 

“Put it here. Careful.”

“ _Her,”_ Gimli corrected again, slowly placing his now sleeping little friend inside. “Won’t she need some food and water?”

“Tomorrow,” Legolas replied. “Luckily, there are no injuries, but the fall and the intense cold must have been taxing. It needs to use all its energy to recover from the shock, for now.”

“ _She_ needs- why do you insist on pretending you don’t know?”

“Master Gimli, it is impossible to determine whether it is male or female- it’s too early.”

“Bah.” 

“However, would it be a problem for you if I left it- if I left this bird here? This room is nice and warm, or at least, it is now.”

“I would be happy to have some company,” answered the Dwarf, too tired to think of how that would sound. Legolas, on his part, did not miss the implication that Gimli had spent the last weeks locked away and alone. Nor did he miss the yawns he was trying to conceal.

“You should rest, too. Have you slept at all?” He asked, referring to that night. 

“Not for the past few days,” Gimli answered, and Legolas wondered if the Dwarf knew that every word he spoke stabbed him right in the chest. 

“I shall leave you to rest, then,” he murmured, standing up, but Gimli stood as well and stopped him. 

“My thanks, Prince Oropher,” he said, bowing his head a little- at which Legolas feared he would fall over, dozy as he was. 

“I shall check on you both next morning,” he answered, carefully placing the basket on the empty desk. “No need to thank me, Master Dwarf...”

“Just Gimli, my Lord. Master Dwarf is my father.”

“...No need to thank me, Gimli. I do wish your stay here to be comfortable,” said Legolas tentatively, taking Gimli’s arm and leading him back to the bed. 

“It’s fine, I can walk-”

“You are almost as weak as the bird. Let me help,” he insisted. There was no need to mention how guilty he felt for the state he was in- had he approached him before, he would have solved the matter or firewood before it became a problem.

When the Dwarf was back under the blankets, Legolas dared sit on the edge of the bed to check his forehead again- with the back of his hand, this time. 

“It will be fine in the morning,” Gimli muttered, fiercely fighting against his own sleepiness. 

“I hope so,” sighed Legolas. “Mast- Gimli, I understand how you must be feeling,” started the Elf, looking at the fire. “But I beg of you to believe me when I say that the last thing I wish is for you to be uncomfortable here. For as long as you stay with us, please trust me. Anything you need, any question, trust me with it even if you don’t trust anyone else.”

He started, his heart beating faster with every word. Was he saying too much? Was he going to say even more, in the heat of the moment?

“I have not been honest with you, but perhaps it was a mistake. I should tell you, Gimli, and please forgive me for the time it took me-”

Legolas felt sudden contact against his leg and turned his eyes away from the fire, looking at the bed. A very sleeping Dwarf, all curled up under the blankets, was unconsciously snuggling against him. The Elven Prince sighed, not sure if he was relieved or disappointed at the failure of his impulsive honesty, and allowed himself to linger there a bit. 

He indulged a few moments in the illusion that they were not an Elven Prince lying about his Name and a mortal, a Dwarf, held hostage. If they were a regular couple of soulmates, they would perhaps spend the night like that, and find comfort in each other’s closeness. They would wake up slightly embarrassed, if they were still courting, but their souls would sing for the warmth and tenderness of a shared bed. 

As things were, if Gimli was to find him there, the next morning, he would be confused and startled. Worried, perhaps, even scared that his captor- that had to be how he saw “Oropher”, as one of those who held him captive, and he could hardly be proven wrong- held so much interest in him. 

What was he thinking, trying to tell him the truth now? _You are my soulmate, and I yours. Forgive me for lying about the most sacred thing the Valar gave their children, now let us get to know each other while my father holds you hostage._ No. If there was something more sacrilegious than lying about his Name, that was speaking to Gimli of their bond while he was not free to decide whether to leave or to stay.

He would hold onto his lie and get to know Gimli without that disturbing reality. Perhaps, when everything was solved and Gimli finally regained his freedom, he could explain everything and be forgiven.

Reluctantly, Legolas stood up, collected the tray and the cup that were still lying on the floor, and left the room in silence. 

\---

Glóin was, in a word, quiet. He barely spoke to the others, with the sole exception of his brother- who, to be fair, was not exactly what you would call a chatty Dwarf those days. Not that the rest of the company was not affected by the thought of having left one behind, and Gimli, of all, that many still considered a child. 

Thorin did not dare to try and force him out of his mutism, on the contrary, he avoided conversation when not needed. His nephews, not less upset than the rest of the family, were not as silent as the others. They prompted to go on, they sharply cut off any complaint when the rhythm of their journey was too taxing. Bilbo, too, prompted the others to go on, though with a less upset attitude than the Princes. 

They left Lake Town as soon as they were ready, and after many long days they were near the Mountain. There they set camp, and every day they explored the sides of the Mountain, searching for the door. Glóin was the last one to quit every day, staying after the sun had set. Many times he risked not finding his way back to the camp, until one night Thorin raised the issue. 

They had finished supper, and most of them were sitting near the fire for warmth and songs before a good rest. Óin and Glóin were in no mood for singing, as usual, and they had been the first to raise that morning (Bilbo suspected they had not slept at all), so they made to move towards their bedrolls, but Thorin addressed them directly for the first time since they had left Mirkwood. 

“Glóin, a word.” 

The Dwarf turned slowly, and Bilbo exchanged a worried look with Balin. 

Glóin did not exactly blame Thorin for what had happened but, for the past few weeks, little thoughts, innocent _what if_ s, and slight remorse had been gnawing at his mind like woodworms, getting fatter and fatter, and were now ready to pop out any moment, corpulent and enraged. 

“Yes?”

“I understand your eagerness to find our way in, believe me, but I would appreciate it if you came back here with the others, while the sun still gives some light. The last thing we need is for you to get lost somewhere around the mountain.”

“I can very well find my way back to the camp even in the middle of the night, Thorin," snapped Glóin, raising to his feet. 

“And if anything, I will begin to stay even longer, as long as my legs can keep me up. I will sleep on the damn side of the Mountain if I have to! How you all can sing merrily when Gimli is alone in Mirkwood is beyond me.” 

“We are all eager to get your son out of there as soon as possible, Glóin, but we must stay lively, or we shall lose faith and hope in our mission.” 

“Thorin,” Óin interrupted, a hand over his brother’s shoulders- he was the only one who would dare such a gesture at that moment, and not few gasped as if they expected Glóin to get even more upset. Surprisingly enough, he did not. “Durin’s day approaches, and Lord Elrond mentioned it as some sort of… trigger, or deadline, or both, according to the moon-letters. What if we don’t find the door by then?”

“Impossible,” retorted Thorin, “we have already searched most of the area. We must be close! Even if it is in the very last spot we check, we will find it ere that day!”

“Are you sure? What if we have passed it without seeing it? The Elvenking promised to give us back my son if we give him a portion of the treasure, and to set him free in case we die in the quest. What if we don’t get inside the mountain at all? How will we pay for his freedom?”

“We will, somehow. Even if I have to go back to the Blue Mountains and bring all I have there in Mirkwood.”

“Oh, please!” Exploded Glóin, shaking his brother’s hand off his shoulder and stomping towards Thorin. “Even you are not wealthy enough to comply with the Elvenking’s requests! If we don’t get into the Halls of Erebor and retrieve the treasure, we’ll never be able to pay him. I’d rather have the Dragon jump out of the mountain and burn us all down, at least my son would be sent back to his mother!” 

“Watch your tongue, Glóin! Gimli is not the only one here whose family awaits him at home.”

“He is the only one who was left behind, though!”

“Perhaps he should have not joined at all!”

“He wouldn’t have, if you had behaved like a King!”

“He wouldn’t have if you had behaved like a parent!”

At that point, Bilbo and Balin stood up and launched themselves between the two, followed by Fíli and Kíli. 

“Peace, peace! We will find that door at all costs, cousin,” Balin stated, looking solemnly at Glóin. “As much as we care for the quest, family comes first. Gimli is everyone’s priority.”

“Indeed,” Fili agreed, while his brother tried to calm their uncle. “If, Mahal forbid, we fail, we will all find another way to pay the Elvenking together.”

“But we won’t need to,” Bilbo quickly backed them up, “because we’ll find that door. I _am_ your burglar, after all, am I not? I didn’t come all this way to have nothing to burgle.”

Before either Glóin or Thorin could add anything, Dwalin stood as well. 

“We could take turns and stay longer with Glóin,” he suggested, “so he won’t have to find his way back alone. What do you say?”

“I don’t need anyone, but I won’t say no to more eyes searching for that entrance. I can hardly afford being prideful when my son’s freedom is at stake.”

“Very well, this is a solution I can accept. Thank you, Dwalin,” said Thorin, under Kíli’s eloquent gaze. 

It goes without saying that none of them slept well, that night. As soon as the sun started to rise, they were all up and ready for one more day of hopeful search. 

\---

A lively chirping slowly made its way into Gimli’s half-sleeping mind. The sun had already started to reach him gently with his rays through the skylight, and he had just pulled the covers over his head. Nothing coming from outside, no sun nor tweeting birds, could make him rise from the bed. He had not slept like that in ages, and slowly he remembered what had happened that night. The cold clawing at his body, the Prince lighting the fire for him. He had been foolish to avoid using the firewood for so long. 

More chirping, and suddenly he opened his eyes wide, the memory of the nestling suddenly hitting him. He jumped off the bed and looked about the room, hardly remembering where the Elf had placed her the night before. When his gaze fell on the tiny basket on the desk, he rushed to it and beamed at the fluffy, cheerful little lady inside. 

“Good morning to you!” he said, relieved to find her looking so healthy. “Let me put on my boots and I’ll be all yours.” 

Just as he did so, there was a knock on the door. Gimli was surprised at how merry he felt when a now familiar voice called him.

“Gimli? Are you awake?”

“Ay- Yes, Lord Oropher. Come in.”

The door was opened by one of the guards, and the Prince walked inside, followed by an Elf that Gimli had come to know as Ellorion. He was usually the one to take him food, and one of the few people he had a chance to speak to, if briefly. He had a tray with him, as usual.

“Master Dwarf, you look well. I am told you tried to let yourself freeze last night. Is my cooking so poor that you would go so far to avoid it?” He asked, placing the tray on the table. 

“I could hardly blame him if your cooking was at fault, Ellorion,” answered the Prince, earning an expression of exaggerated offence from the other. Gimli could not help but smile, surprised. He would have not expected the Prince to have such a relaxed relationship with his people. He expected them to be uptight and formal to each other, like they did at the Courts of Men, like the Elves and the Half-Elves of Rivendell were around Lord Elrond, not to jest and joke like friends. Like Dwarves. 

“I will leave my terrible dishes here and be on my way, then,” Ellorion complained, shrugging. “I am truly glad that you are fine, Master Dwarf.”

“My thanks, Master Elf,” bowed Gimli as the cook left the room. He expected the Prince to follow suit, now that he had made sure that the Dwarf was on his feet, but he did not. 

“Mind if I keep you company, this morning?” He asked, pointing at the tray that, Gimli noticed, held more than double the food it usually would. 

“You are the master of this place, Prince Oropher, you need not ask. I am confused that you wish to consume breakfast here, but I will not certainly stop you, nor complain.” 

The Prince was not sure if Gimli meant that he would rather be left alone but would not complain due to their different positions, or that he would actually enjoy some company. He knew, however, that the Dwarf had phrased it so ambiguous on purpose, and seeing things from the point of view of a hostage, it was quite a clever move. He had no idea what the Prince wanted from him and remained neutral: nothing to be surprised of. 

“My thanks. I think someone else might want some breakfast, yes?” Legolas approached the basket to smile at the nestling, who started chirping and fluttering her wings at him. 

“Ah, now you suddenly like me again? I hope it’s not merely because I brought you food.” 

“She was confused and scared, last night,” Gimli defended her, peeking inside the basket. “Do you think she could eat something now, then?”

“Hungry,” said a voice, and Gimli nodded. 

“Yes, I’m sure she is, I agree. But is it safe for her?”

“Forgive me,” asked the Prince, “You agree on what?”

“I agree that she is.”

“She is what?”

“Hungry, like you said.”

“I did not say a word.” 

Gimli frowned, wondering if he was still affected by weakness and fever, when again a voice insisted: “Hungry!”

Gimli turned slowly towards the basket, staring at the bird for several moments, then back to the Elf, who was looking at him with concern, as if he, too, was wondering whether Gimli was still feverish. 

“Did you hear that?”

“What?”

“The bird.”

“It’s tweeting…?”

“She’s talking!”

The Prince blinked a couple of times, stepped forward and proceeded checking Gimli’s temperature. 

“Will you leave my forehead alone,” the Dwarf complained, stepping back from the other’s hand. “I am fine.” 

“Food,” the voice insisted, and as Gimli turned to her it hit him.

“Mahal be blessed,” he muttered, suddenly losing interest in the Elf’s concern for his health and turning his full attention to the bird. “You must be a Raven, yes?” 

“Ra, Raven!” The bird confirmed with a little difficulty. She was but a small child, after all, and she probably had never spoken that tongue out loud before. 

“Unbelievable. I’ve never talked to a Raven before.”

“You speak as if it is something most people experience,” the Prince interrupted him, appalled. 

“Not most people. Most Dwarves, or at least, so it was when my people lived under the Lonely Mountain,” Gimli explained patiently, lest he wanted the Elf to check his temperature again. “The people of Durin and the Ravens have a long-standing alliance, and we are blessed with the privilege of understanding what they say. A similar bond existed between thrushes and the people of Dale, or so they say.”

“I have heard these stories,” the Prince admitted, “but I thought them to be nothing more than that. Stories. Legends.”

“Then you were quite mistaken,” Gimli retorted, turning to the little Raven. “That must be why I could tell you are a girl, yes?” 

The Raven chirped happily, and Gimli chuckled. 

“Oh, and that also explains why she liked me so! That’s what I would expect from a Raven.”

Legolas did not remember seeing any black feather in his own reflection that morning. Alas, the explanation did not apply to him. 

“You are not jesting, are you? You really understand it- her?”

“Indeed, and she’s starving, poor thing. Can we feed her?”

“Of course,” Legolas agreed, still rather incredulous, raising his left hand. A satchel was hanging from his wrist, and as he took it off and opened it, Gimli could see a couple of hard-boiled eggs inside. 

“Eggs? Shouldn’t we feed her bugs and worms?”

“Not unless you can pre-digest them for her as her parents would. Oh, perhaps you can do that as well?”

“Are you always so hilarious?”

“I try my best. Look, give her a piece for now,” he said handing him the bag. “She needs to eat only a little but very often. Can I ask you to take the trouble, since you seem to enjoy each other’s company so much?”

“It would be a joy,” Gimli answered, glowing. “Please, let her stay with me, at least until she doesn’t need to be taken care of anymore.” 

So much for his resolve not to ask for anything.

“Indeed. I took her here for warmth, but I feared to bother you. Since you enjoy her presence, and given the fact that she is apparently inherently fond of Dwarves, it would be foolish to take her away.” 

“Are you sure about those eggs? She’s complaining.”

“Ah. What is the matter?” Asked Legolas, trying to decide if it was ridiculous or heart-warming that the Dwarf was mediating between him and a bird. 

“She said that it’s too dry. Her food is usually wet.”

“Mh,” Legolas considered, “chicks usually get water through their food as it is, but…” 

He took a small piece of egg and poured a drop of water over it, shook away the excess to prevent the risk of drowning, and offered it to the bird. 

“I seem to remember that some species dip the food in water to add moisture. Is this better?”

The nestling ate and chirped happily, and Gimli burst out in laughter at her comment. Legolas felt somehow left out and, trying once again to decide whether that was the silliest or the cutest thing that had ever happened to him, asked: “What did she say?”

“She said you’re a good hen,” answered Gimli as soon as he collected his breath.

 _I’ll settle for cutest_ , Legolas thought before starting to shake with mirth in turn. 

“I am flattered,” he managed, wiping tears from his eyes. “Let us eat something as well, before she needs to be fed again. Do you wish to see the baths before?”

“Actually, I would like to, yes.” 

“Of course,” Legolas nodded, gesturing towards the door. “Just one thing, you don’t need to be escorted by the guards anymore. Unless you don’t remember the way.”

“I do,” Gimli replied, frowning, “but I fail to understand. Am I allowed to go to the baths by myself?”

“To the baths and wherever you want inside the palace. I spoke to the King earlier this morning, and we both agree that there is no point in keeping you confined inside your room.”

“There isn’t?”

“Indeed. You have never behaved violently or hostilely. Besides, even if you were to believe it a good idea to escape the palace and venture in the woods alone, you could not go past the magic that protects every way out. Feel free to leave the room when you need or when you want. The door will not be locked anymore, and there will be no guards on duty but do seek for them or me if you need anything.”

Gimli opened and closed his mouth, unsure of what to say. He was surprised at that sudden change, to the point that he wondered if there was some ulterior motive behind. In the end he shrugged, thinking that he would hardly have time to wander around the castle as long as he was in charge of taking care of the bird, and he cleared his voice.

“Thank you, My Lord, and please bring my thanks to the King as well,”

“‘My Lord’ is my father,” Legolas smiled, mimicking Gimli’s words from the night before. “Call me Oropher.”

Funnily enough, that was his _grandfather_ , but we are not here to judge the Prince’s lack of skill in seeing irony.

Gimli thanked him again, took a set of clean clothes and left the room. Indeed, there were no guards outside, and he could freely reach the baths, refresh himself and come back to find that the Prince had prepared the table and apparently had had another chair brought in. 

"Ah, sit with me. I would like to tell you what I know of bird care, though I believe you will do just fine as long as you can just ask her directly."

They spent a good couple of hours nibbling at their food and talking of birds, the Elven Prince sharing his experience in the matter of rescued chicks and Gimli telling him the stories of the allegiance of Dwarves and Ravens, of how it came to be and the great things it led to. They only stopped a few times to feed their little friend (whose name, it turned out, was Arka, or so she said), and Gimli learned how to wet her food just enough. Too much water would drown her, the Elf explained, and the sole idea made Gimli's chest clench.

"I am afraid I must go," said the Elf at last, looking at the position of the sun. "I have to lead a patrol. There is a small group of spiders we need to hunt down." 

"Small? The nest we were brought to was pretty densely populated." 

"No, the one we are looking for is on the other side of the palace. Surely we will need to take care of the one you speak of, as soon as we get the chance… well. One thing at a time." 

Legolas bowed politely before leaving the room. 

"Thank you for your time, Gimli," he said, and before Gimli could think of an actual, proper answer, he was gone.

“He is not so bad, right, Arka?”

“Kind,” the bird agreed. Gimli smiled, sitting at the table, and spend the rest of the day telling her the storied of times lost, when the Dwarves lived in Erebor and the Ravens were their allies and messengers. Arka listened enraptured the whole time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to [Roselightfairy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roselightfairy/pseuds/Roselightfairy) for helping me to sort out a particularly tricky part of this chapter! 
> 
> If you're enjoying this story, and/or you're a Gigolas shipper, or you just love Tolkien's world, consider following me on Tumblr here -> [The_Dwelf_AO3](https://the-dwelf-ao3.tumblr.com/), I'm always happy to get in touch with new friends!


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